Saying Goodbye
by Mariel1
Summary: Wilson receives some bad news about a death in his family, and asks Tim to drive him to the funeral. Chapters will be short. Hope you enjoy it.
1. Chapter 1

Saying Goodbye

_Author's Note: This was partly a inspired by a discussion on a HI forum, and it was partly a fanfic challenge. If any of the details are a little off, it's because I've only recently started watching the show again, so I don't know very much about Wilson's background. Rated PG for character death. Before anyone has a fit, it's _just _a fanfic, so don't get bent out of shape. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. This first chapter is a shortie, and the fic itself won't be long, but hopefully it's worth the read._

"Hey, Wilson." said Tim as he backed out his side door, paying out extention cord as he went. When he didn't receive an answer, he looped the cord over his arm and peeked over the fence. He knew Wilson was back there, because he had seen the top of his hat bobbing up and down as he walked by, but now the older man was sitting on a bench with his back to him. "Yo. Wilson?"

Wilson jumped slightly as if coming out of a trance, and looked over his shoulder. "Well. Tim. I didn't hear you come outside."

Tim scowled a bit. The fact that Wilson hadn't heard him when he was making enough noise for three men was enough to give him pause, but when Wilson didn't give his usual cheerful 'Hidey-ho, neighbor', there was usually something wrong. "You okay, Wilson?"

"Well...now that you mention it, I did get some rather bad news this morning." sighed Wilson, getting up and approaching the fence with a letter in his hand. Tim nodded questioningly at the letter, and Wilson nodded and handed it over.

Tim took this as a go-ahead to read the letter, and he looked at the back. "It's from Willow's parents..." he observed, figuring that it couldn't be anything _too_ serious. He got nothing more than a nod in return, and he removed the three-page letter from the envelope to read it. There were a few spots where the ink had run, and it didn't occur to him right away that they might be tears, either from the person who wrote the letter or from Wilson himself. It was impossible to be sure.

_'Dear Wilson,_

_I'm sorry to have to tell you this way, but I know you don't own a telephone, and I won't be able to drive there myself. I know you haven't heard the sad news about Willow, as you don't own a television either. Last night, she and her boyfriend Vince were in a car accident. A drunk driver plowed into them, and-' _

At that point, someone had scribbled out the next few words, and Tim stopped reading when he came to the words "_They didn't make it"_. He looked up at Wilson, and shook his head. "God, Wilson, I'm sorry..."

"Thank you." Wilson replied, taking back the letter, and he licked his lips briefly as he gathered his thoughts to ask a question. "Tim, I was wondering if you'd be willing to do me a favor..."

"Sure, anything." said Tim.

Wilson rested his elbows on the crossbar on his side of the fence, and said, "Well, as you know, I don't own a car."

'_Or a phone, or a TV, or a microwave..._' Tim added mentally, though he simply nodded. He had some idea of what was coming.

"You see, it's rather short notice, and I don't...I really think I should be there. For the funeral. I just don't have a way to get there, and I know this is an imposition..."

Tim held up a hand to stop him, since he seemed to be having trouble getting it out. "You want me to drive you there, is that what you're saying?"

"If you would, Tim, yes." Wilson nodded, seeming relieved.

"Say no more; 'course I'll drive you there." Tim replied before he thought it through. He turned to go back inside, then he stopped and said, "By the way, when is it?"

"Today."

Tim did a double-take, and went back to the fence. "Wait a minute, _today?_ When'd you get this letter?"

"Today." Wilson repeated.

"Wilson..." Tim took a deep breath, and said as patiently as possible, "Don't you think it would be a good idea if you got yourself a phone? I could install it for you."

"No, no, no, no, no Tim. You see, I find living at the mercy of the telephone to be too much of an invasion of privacy. Ring, ring, ring, drop what you're doing, hurry hurry...No, but thank you just the same." he replied.

Tim knew better than to argue. Wilson was set in his ways, and to be honest, if he changed too much, he wouldn't be the same anymore. From making his own toilet paper to imitating the mating call of a possum, Wilson was one of a kind. "Well...what time will it be?"

"Six o'clock...but these things never start on time." replied Wilson, who had the look of one who had been to several funerals.

Tim looked at his watch. It wasn't even noon yet, but it would be a long drive to the funeral. Willow lived about five and a half hours away, so they would have to leave soon. "Okay, I'm just gonna go grab a shower and tell Jill where I'm going."

"Thank you, Tim."


	2. Chapter2

Saying Goodbye

Willow Wilson was Wilson Wilson's niece, a free-spirited young woman who had her own way of doing things. Much like her uncle, she was rather quirky at times, and if the word 'independant' described anyone, it described her. As Tim put on his best suit, he couldn't help remembering the time when she had been staying with the Taylors and hadn't returned home one night. Of course everyone had feared the worst, and the Taylors had searched high and low for her. Tim's thought had been '_If I don't find her, if she isn't safe, Wilson's gonna kill me'_, but he was more worried about Willow than anything else. Everything had turned out all right that night, but now...

Now Tim was getting ready to go to her funeral, which was something he wasn't looking forward to. He didn't like funerals, especially if the person in the casket was someone he knew. There was Mr. Binford's funeral, and Jill's father's funeral...and now Willow's. If it wasn't for the fact that Wilson had no other way to get there, Tim didn't know if he'd be going himself. Poor Wilson...

Those had been Jill's exact words before she had started crying. '_What is it with women and crying? Even Wilson wasn't crying, and this was his niece.'_ Tim shook his head, adjusted his tie, and went downstairs to check on Jill and to see if Wilson was ready to leave. It wasn't so much that Tim was against crying; after all, he had cried at Mr. Binford's funeral, though you wouldn't catch him admitting it now. But he still couldn't get past the idea that men, as a general rule, did not cry.

"Jill?" he looked around the living room, then spotted her standing at the back fence, talking to Wilson.

Wilson, who for once was without his ever-present hat, was nodding at something Jill was saying. Tim went out, and Wilson peered over Jill's shoulder. "We ready to go?" Tim asked him.

"All set." replied Wilson.

"Car's in the garage. Come on around, and we'll get going." Tim jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that Wilson should cut through their house.

"I'm so sorry, Wilson." said Jill thickly, "If I didn't have that paper to write..."

"It's quite all right." he replied, his eyes crinkling a bit as he forced a smile that she couldn't see; he was still in his yard, and he disengaged his hand from Jill's as he walked around the fence to get to their yard. As he came through their gate, he had a road map up, obscuring his face. "Now, Tim, if we take-"

"Wilson, trust me, I know the way." Tim assured him as they went inside.

"Bring the map with you." Jill whispered to Wilson as he passed, provoking a small chuckle.

* * *

The long silence that stretched between them as Tim drove would have been oppressive to Jill, who would have been nattering on about any odd thing just to keep conversation going. Even Wilson could be very chatty sometimes, but not today. Tim found himself in a strange position; _he_ was the one who found the silence oppressive, and Wilson's mood just struck him as odd. He said very little as he hid behind his road map, and what little he did say was road-related. He didn't seem very much like a bereaved uncle, but then again he was sometimes hard to read.

"So...how long has it been since you saw her last?" Tim asked, unable to take it anymore.

"Oh, let's see...I guess about five months, give or take. Why?" Wilson glanced over.

Tim blew out his cheeks, and shrugged. "No reason."

After another long silence, Wilson traced their route on the map with his eyes, and chewed the inside of his cheek. "You know, Tim...I don't think it's really sunk in yet."

Tim nodded, and merged into the right lane, giving his typical half-grunted, mumbled agreement.

"Catherine and I, we never had any children of our own. Cancer took her before we'd been married for five years, and...Willow was like a daughter to me." he spoke in a quiet, subdued voice. "I remember when she was born, she had...this full head of red hair. I'd never seen a newborn with so much hair." he chuckled a little and fell silent, remembering.

Tim glanced over at him, but Wilson's face was calm and composed. "This's gotta be really hard on you, Wilson. I'm not much good at this, to be honest with ya. Just sorry I can't do more than drive you there."

"No, and I appreciate that, Tim." said Wilson. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm funny about these things...it never seems real until I see the casket. Then I know it's true."

"Mm-hmm..." Tim scratched his chin, then quickly grabbed the wheel again. They were coming to a busy part of the highway.

"Tim, you should take this exit right here." Wilson pointed.

Normally Tim would have argued, but in this case he made an exception; Wilson had obviously made this trip before, either on the bus or with a friend, so he should know. An hour passed with nothing but the occasional rustle of Wilson's map, and when Wilson spoke again, it actually caused Tim to jump.

"You know, Tim, I just remembered a quote from Isaac Asimov; 'Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome'."

"What made you think of that?" asked Tim.

Wilson merely looked out the window and said nothing, and Tim, who expected a follow-up explanation, was surprised when none seemed to be forthcoming. Tim didn't press him for an answer, and he wouldn't have gotten one; Wilson was no longer in the mood to talk, and found himself thinking about what it must have been like to be in that car. He couldn't imagine such sudden terror, and he hoped that shock took over and they felt no pain. He wanted to tell Tim to turn around and drive them back home, he wanted to open the door at the next stop light and jump out. He stayed put, and kept silent.

_Author's Note: Chapter 3 and perhaps an epilogue will be posted some time soon. Don't be shy about reviewing, you guys; it's a good morale booster. I don't want to give too much away, but in the next chapter Wilson must come to terms with Willow's death. Ta-ta!_


	3. Chapter 3

Saying Goodbye

_Author's Note: This chapter is slightly longer than the other two, because some things just can't be rushed. I hope I kept everyone in character._

As Tim pulled into the parking lot at the funeral home, a man approached with an orange magnetic flag that said "funeral" on it, and said, "You're here for the Wilson funeral, right?"

After a moment's consideration of what Tim thought was a stupid question, he answered patronizingly, "Uh-huh."

"All right," said the man, putting the flag on the roof of the car, where it adhered with a muted 'thump'. "After the funeral, if you'll just follow the procession to the cemetary, we-"

"I know, I know, I've been to these things before." Tim cut the man off, removing his seat belt and ignoring Wilson's reproachful frown.

"Hey..." the man blinked, then pointed, "You're that Tool Time guy, aren't you? You work with Al!"

Tim sighed. "Yeah, that's me. Excuse us, we wanna..." he pointed towards the funeral home, and grunted.

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

Tim saw that Wilson was already ambling towards the building, and he jogged to catch up with him. The interior of the funeral home was neat and clean, as such places are, and the walls of the foyer were lined with all sorts of paintings. Some chairs and a couch stood against one wall, and they could hear people milling around in the next room. The pervading scent of chrysanthemums nearly made Tim gag, and there were enough lillies to cover a Buick. Wilson stopped to look at the flowers, seeming more interested in telling Tim their scientific names than he was in proceeding to the next room.

"The Rubrum Lily, 'Lilium Speciosum'; my mother grows these." Wilson said in conversational tones.

"Does she?" asked Tim, not really interested in discussing flowers while two young people lay dead nearby.

"Oh yes. You know, I was thinking about getting some bulbs to put in this year." said Wilson.

"Uh-huh." Tim moved towards the door to the next room, and walked through it. He said hello to the few people he recognized, ended up shaking several hands, and slowly made his way to the caskets in the front of the room. Vince's casket was closed, but a good photo of him was blown up and propped on a nearby easel. Willow's casket, however, was open. Tim stared down at the young, pale face, and he felt the unwelcome sensation of tears pricking his eyes. Willow could have been asleep but for the fact that her chest didn't rise and fall in the act of breathing. Tim turned away, and scanned the room for Wilson. He wasn't there.

"Where in the Hell..." Tim frowned, and went back to the foyer where Wilson was still staring at the same bouquet of flowers. "Wilson, aren't you coming?"

"Yes..."

But Wilson didn't move. He didn't want to see his neice in that coffin, he didn't want to see her dead. He didn't want it to be real, and he knew that it would only be as real as concrete to him if he saw her. Wilson was very wise in many matters, and he had enough 'useless' knowledge inside his head to fill a library, but he was afraid; he was holding on to the belief that if he didn't see her face she wouldn't truly be dead.

"Wilson?" Tim prodded after two minutes had passed and the older man hadn't moved.

"Hmm?" Wilson looked back at him over his shoulder.

"You're stalling." said Tim, not unkindly. "She...um...looks real good."

Wilson's eyebrows scrunched a bit; he had never been able to say that kind of thing. At other funerals he'd had to bite his tongue to refrain from saying 'he doesn't look good, he looks dead', or 'she' if it was a woman. And he didn't want to see his neice that way. But then again, why else had he come here but to pay his final respects to the young woman he had loved so dearly? He nodded, and walked past Tim to do what he had to do. Tim waited in the foyer, sensing that this was something private.

Wilson slowly approached the caskets, ignoring his family and friends as they greeted him, and put his hands on the edge of Willow's casket. He forced himself to look down at her dear face, forced himself to believe it. He would never see her again. "Oh...Willow."

Tim waited for several minutes until he thought Wilson should be done before he re-entered the room. He saw that Wilson was still at Willow's side, and that everyone else in the room was either talking or staring at the paintings, but no one was talking to Wilson himself. And Tim saw why.

Wilson was standing with his head bowed, his shoulders shaking silently. This was something Tim never thought he would see, something he never _wanted_ to see. Wilson was crying. Tim wondered why none of his relatives was going over to see if he was all right; no one was looking at him or attempting to talk to him. While Tim wanted to escape this situation entirely, he didn't feel it was right for them to ignore his grief while they dealt with their own. Perhaps they didn't know how to deal with it, but as his family they should at least be trying. But they were giving him a wide berth, as if the sight of him in tears unnerved them; and perhaps it did. Maybe they weren't trying to comfort him because they didn't know how to do that with someone like Wilson. Wilson always had all the answers, and wasn't given to despair or anything like it. Tim could understand that; he was rather put off at the moment as well.

But this man was his friend. Tim sucked it up, and walked over to where Wilson stood in silent tears at his neice's side. Reaching into his pocket, Tim pulled out a clean red hankie and tapped Wilson on the shoulder, silently offering it. Wilson hardly glanced over as he took it, nodding his thanks and burying his face in its depths. Tim had to admit it, Wilson was actually doing very well; only the occasional soft gasp was heard from him, while some people could be heard sobbing from across the room. Tim gave him a brief pat on the back, keeping his hand there and staying silent for a while. Neither man was really the hugging type.

Finally Wilson seemed to calm down a little, and he wiped his eyes with the hankie and blew his nose. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Tim replied, not looking at him. "It happens. Happened to me at Mr. Binford's funeral."

"Mr. Binford wasn't my neice..." Wilson said a little dryly.

"Well, I know _that,_ I was just sayin'..." Tim nodded and made a hand gesture, as if to say 'you know'.

"Yes..." Wilson sighed, finally looking up. His eyes were rather red, but he was in control of his emotions now. "Tim, I hope she didn't suffer...I really do."

"I know that..." Tim nodded, looking back at him. "Look, I'm sure she didn't."

Wilson nodded, though he looked like he wasn't so sure. He reached out as if to touch Willow's red hair, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to do it. "Tim, she had so much to live for...She and Vince were going to be married next year, did you know that?"

Tim didn't want to talk about this, but he said, "No, I didn't."

"Oh yes...He was a good young man. A little arrogant, perhaps..." Wilson shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm...It's...such a waste."

"Well..." Tim cleared his throat; he wasn't good at this at all. He wished Jill was there; she was good with words. "I'm not saying this is a _good _thing, or anything, but...neither will have to lose the other. They're together..."

"Small comfort, Tim..." Wilson replied, heading for the chairs as Tim followed him.

While Tim was out of things to say, it didn't seem to matter. Wilson seemed perfectly content to sit there in silence, and Tim wasn't about to interrupt that. The two of them sat looking in opposite directions, watching family members exchanging hellos and greetings, watching them hug or shake hands. Occasionally they would look at Wilson, and they seemed to want to approach him, but Wilson seemed to give off a 'don't bother me' vibe.

"Talked to Willow's parents yet?" Tim finally asked.

Wilson blinked, and looked a little surprised. "Why, no I didn't..."

"Why don't ya?" Tim urged. "They're _your_ family; shouldn't you be dealin' with this together?"

Wilson finally cracked a small smile. "Why, yes indeedy, I suppose we should. Would you excuse me?"

Tim nodded, making a shooing motion with his hands. "Sure, sure, go on."

Tim watched as Wilson approached Willow's parents, and he gave a satisfied nod as Wilson shook her father's hand and hugged her crying mother. Tim was only there as a friend, and he could only do so much. This was how it _should_ be.

_Author's Note: Nearly there! An epilogue is soon to come._


End file.
